It’s no secret that since becoming a parent, I loathe Valentine’s Day.

Oh, you’d like to fill my children with sugar and candies full of red dye that they are allergic to? SURE. SIGN ME UP.

Not to mention the fact that I never have the time or babysitters necessary to have an evening out. That’s just the topping on my I Hate Valentine’s Day sundae. (I hate it on Tuesdays, too. Haaaaa.)

But, this year I found a new reason to abhor the holiday of cheap chocolates and greeting cards.

Those little gems are paper Valentines that one is supposed to be able to magically thread a pencil through to give out to classmates. (I am not sure how “Shift and drift, Valentine!” is an affirmation of friendship, but I am not exactly an expert here.) Now, that is a super idea… if you can thread those damned pencils. I think they were designed by the same people that manufacture those instructional books that make origami look like a simple and relaxing hobby. Bull. If the directions are more complicated than “fold the paper hamburger or hotdog style”, it’s not simple, relaxing, or even anything I am remotely capable of accomplishing without swearing.

The Valentines we purchased were apparently made of wet newsprint and had semi-formed pencil holes that were strategically placed for maximum ripping and minimum holding of the flipping pencils. I tore through those buggers like an over-zealous document shredder. It wasn’t pretty. Who makes a pencil hole smaller than the pencil that is supposed to go through it? I mean, honestly, that is just cruel and unusual.

I massacred the Valentines after the kids were in bed, the night before the big day. Brandon thought that was a little weird and last minute of me until he saw how I oh-so-delicately tore the hell out of those Valentines and swore at them until they held on to their %$*#@ pencils with or without extensive use of tape. And staples. And possibly a glue gun.

Hey, I had to assemble 60 of those stupid cards. Can you really blame me? I had to fight through paper cuts, broken pencils, and that smug son-of-a-so-and-so Lightning McQueen smiling up at me. Who does he think he is? Oh, you’re better than me, Mr. Race Car? Yeah?! You can put these friggin’ cards together better? YEAH??? NO. YOU CAN’T. YOU ARE A CAR. YOU HAVE WHEELS, NOT HANDS. WHERE ARE YOUR OPPOSABLE THUMBS, MR FANCY RACECAR???????

I may have gotten a little carried away with the cards.

Next year, I don’t care HOW much the teachers say it would benefit their personal growth to be separated, those twins need to be in the same class. And give out joint cards. Without pencils. Or card. You know what, I think I am just going to be the mom that brings in a huge sugar bomb of cupcakes instead. The teachers will hate me, but at least I won’t be screaming at a construction paper picture of Finn McMissile in the middle of the night. I have to at least pretend I have a shred of sanity left…